for Joy McCall
on your inner island
she asks—
dipping my silent oars
I glide toward the answer
a sorrel mare
at the water’s edge
drinking deeply
dripping moonlight
we find the inland path
in a hut
fragrant with dried thyme
the old crone
at the hearthstone
feeds a flame with her words
at sunup
the reedy sound
of piping
from a fold in the hills
where no path leads
clasping
the hand of a blind harper,
I follow
the song of the brook,
the whisper of trees
~Skylark 4:2, Winter 2016